but because we know that God loves all men equally; He feels the same love for me and you and Eyvindur the carpenter there who is holding your other hand as He does for the man who is lying in that coffin.”
“Is it perhaps the man who was lying in the mortuary the other day and whose face is gone?” I asked.
“Yes, I’m afraid so,” said Pastor Johann. “His face is missing, so to speak, and that is why we do not know who he is. We think we know he may be a certain person; but it could just as well be someone else. We know only one thing: that God created all men equal, and the Saviour saves all men alike.”
The coffin was lowered into the grave and Pastor Johann went over to the edge of the grave and took some earth on his spade (which I think was called a trowel) and said a few words; then he took my hand again and led me to the edge of the grave and said:
“And now, Álfgrímur, we shall sing the psalm that Hallgrímur Pétursson wrote on his little daughter’s death for all men who live and die in Iceland.”
Pastor Johann then began to sing in his brittle old man’s voice, weary and tuneless.
“Just as the one true flower
Grows in the barren ground …”
and I held his hand and joined in the psalm in my clear childish voice; and thus I began to sing for the whole world. It was not without pride that I felt myself somehow to have been chosen to sing both for the living and the dead. Jónas the policeman also sang, and Eyvindur the carpenter too. The lame man who owned the hearse-horses was also trying to sing. And the birds sang.
When we had finished singing we stepped back from the grave. Pastor Jóhann was still holding me by the hand. His gown was longer at the front than the back because he now walked with a stoop.
“That, when all is said and done, was a fine funeral,” said Pastor Jóhann. “A lovely funeral. May God grant us all such a fine funeral.”
I said nothing as I trotted along beside him and he led me by the hand. I could not really understand why it was that Pastor Jóhann thought it such a fine funeral, when there were not even any horses.
The old cathedral pastor bade me farewell at the lych-gate.
“Goodbye, little boy,” he said. “And if you are ever playing in the churchyard here when we are officiating at a funeral, and you see a procession that is not very large, I mean a rather small, good procession like the one today, for example, you are welcome to join in and sing with us. I am not very good at singing, I’m afraid. But even though I’m not very good at singing, I know that there is one note and it is pure. Here are ten
aurar
for you. Give my greetings to Brekkukot, give my greetings to your grandfather and your grandmother. I thank them also for the singing.”
How very old and worn his purse was! But the ten-
aurar
piece he gave me was beautiful. At that time, caramels cost only half an
eyrir
each.
13
A WOMAN FROM LANDBROT
One fine day it so happened that an elderly woman swathed in dark shawls was sitting on the horse-stone across from the cottage-door at Brekkukot, trying to summon up enough courage to knock on the door. Then my grandfather arrived and greeted this woman and raised his hat.
“You must be Björn of Brekkukot, surely,” said the woman. “God give you good day.”
She was pale, with bulging eyes and protruding teeth. She was wearing thin-shoes, and her skirts came down to her ankles. She looked very thin and frail inside all these skirts and shawls.
“Who are your people, if I may ask, and where do you come from?” asked my grandfather.
“I am from Landbrot, out east,” she said.
“That’s a good step, if I may say so,” said my grandfather. “Are you visiting someone here in the south?”
“No, nothing like that,” said the woman, and smiled. “I have come here to die.”
“Just so,” said my grandfather. “Won’t you come in and have something warm?”
“Oh, there’s no need for that,” said the woman. “But
“Is it perhaps the man who was lying in the mortuary the other day and whose face is gone?” I asked.
“Yes, I’m afraid so,” said Pastor Johann. “His face is missing, so to speak, and that is why we do not know who he is. We think we know he may be a certain person; but it could just as well be someone else. We know only one thing: that God created all men equal, and the Saviour saves all men alike.”
The coffin was lowered into the grave and Pastor Johann went over to the edge of the grave and took some earth on his spade (which I think was called a trowel) and said a few words; then he took my hand again and led me to the edge of the grave and said:
“And now, Álfgrímur, we shall sing the psalm that Hallgrímur Pétursson wrote on his little daughter’s death for all men who live and die in Iceland.”
Pastor Johann then began to sing in his brittle old man’s voice, weary and tuneless.
“Just as the one true flower
Grows in the barren ground …”
and I held his hand and joined in the psalm in my clear childish voice; and thus I began to sing for the whole world. It was not without pride that I felt myself somehow to have been chosen to sing both for the living and the dead. Jónas the policeman also sang, and Eyvindur the carpenter too. The lame man who owned the hearse-horses was also trying to sing. And the birds sang.
When we had finished singing we stepped back from the grave. Pastor Jóhann was still holding me by the hand. His gown was longer at the front than the back because he now walked with a stoop.
“That, when all is said and done, was a fine funeral,” said Pastor Jóhann. “A lovely funeral. May God grant us all such a fine funeral.”
I said nothing as I trotted along beside him and he led me by the hand. I could not really understand why it was that Pastor Jóhann thought it such a fine funeral, when there were not even any horses.
The old cathedral pastor bade me farewell at the lych-gate.
“Goodbye, little boy,” he said. “And if you are ever playing in the churchyard here when we are officiating at a funeral, and you see a procession that is not very large, I mean a rather small, good procession like the one today, for example, you are welcome to join in and sing with us. I am not very good at singing, I’m afraid. But even though I’m not very good at singing, I know that there is one note and it is pure. Here are ten
aurar
for you. Give my greetings to Brekkukot, give my greetings to your grandfather and your grandmother. I thank them also for the singing.”
How very old and worn his purse was! But the ten-
aurar
piece he gave me was beautiful. At that time, caramels cost only half an
eyrir
each.
13
A WOMAN FROM LANDBROT
One fine day it so happened that an elderly woman swathed in dark shawls was sitting on the horse-stone across from the cottage-door at Brekkukot, trying to summon up enough courage to knock on the door. Then my grandfather arrived and greeted this woman and raised his hat.
“You must be Björn of Brekkukot, surely,” said the woman. “God give you good day.”
She was pale, with bulging eyes and protruding teeth. She was wearing thin-shoes, and her skirts came down to her ankles. She looked very thin and frail inside all these skirts and shawls.
“Who are your people, if I may ask, and where do you come from?” asked my grandfather.
“I am from Landbrot, out east,” she said.
“That’s a good step, if I may say so,” said my grandfather. “Are you visiting someone here in the south?”
“No, nothing like that,” said the woman, and smiled. “I have come here to die.”
“Just so,” said my grandfather. “Won’t you come in and have something warm?”
“Oh, there’s no need for that,” said the woman. “But
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